


Deal With a Devil

by literal_trashbaby



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Minor Iwaizumi Hajime/Oikawa Tooru, Oops how did that get in there, Sorry Not Sorry, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, devil au, eventual minor religious themes and theological discussion, i just wanted to write devil!Hanamaki and memes, mild but constant blasphemy and language, this is 100percent self-indulgent i'm not even gonna lie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2018-09-21 02:21:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9527531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literal_trashbaby/pseuds/literal_trashbaby
Summary: Nothing shy of divine intervention would enable Issei to meet even half of his deadlines. And if he couldn’t wrangle the assistance of the divine… well, he was willing to take what he could get.This was, by far, the stupidest thing he’d ever tried to do.OR:Matsukawa will do anything to pass his classes. Up to and including making a contract with a devil.





	1. the contract

     Matsukawa Issei swallowed thickly in the candlelight, columns and low tapers placed perfectly equidistant at each point of the pentagram chalked on the ground before him and scattered around the corners of the room, various herbs and arcane materials piled carefully in perfect arrangement around the circle. The living room curtains were closed against the night and prying eyes, furniture pushed to the walls to make room for the diagram.

     This was, by far, the _stupidest_ thing he’d ever tried to do. That _included_ the time he took Iwaizumi up on his invitation to marathon every single Godzilla movie ever made in chronological order (as he had since learned, there is not enough alcohol in the _world_ for him to make it past the first five).

     But this- a contract with a devil- this was another thing entirely. And over school? Matsukawa wondered, _far_ from the first time, why in _any_ hell he had thought grad school was a good idea, but it was way too late to back out now: even if he survived the dressing-down his parents would give him for dropping out, he was already deep enough in student debt that if he didn’t at least leave with _something_ to show for it, he would be completely screwed, socially and financially.

     But grad school was slowly killing him- only halfway through his second semester and he was at the end of his rope, circling the drain on his impending psychological breakdown. He glanced into the far corner of his stress-cave to where his stacks of textbooks and class notes towered precariously, his agenda open on top and covered in red sharpie and highlighter: due dates layered on top of each other like graffiti in a disused train station. Though his expression changed little his guts twisted tighter upon themselves, his heart rate spiked unnaturally, and he broke into a cold sweat, the mere sight of his calendar enough to elicit a Pavlovian fear response.

     He was up against a wall. Nothing shy of divine intervention would enable Issei to meet even _half_ of his deadlines. And if he couldn’t wrangle the assistance of the divine… well, he was willing to take what he could get.

     With a desperate sense of finality, he picked up his grimoire (borrowed from the public library, of all places) and stepped into his pentacle.

 

~~

_“Hey, Pinkie, you’re wanted- Head Office has an assignment for you.” The courier imp heaved itself into the air on its stubby wings, wheezing away before the devil in question could properly articulate an objection._

_“Those ugly little bastards_ never _bring good news,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand through his hair in frustration. “Ten souls says my contractor’s gonna be some nerd who thinks he’s edgy. Or a geezer wanting his youth back. They’re all boring.” He hated boring._

_“Bad luck, man,” His friend clapped him on his back sympathetically, his copper hair swishing elegantly around his horns and charming smile- solely responsible for the eternal damnation of many a naïve youth- unshakeable as always. “With any luck it’ll be a short one, right? In and out. You’ll clean up like you always do.”_

_He sighed. “Thanks. I’d better go, or the Boss’ll have my head. Stay out of trouble while I’m gone, you no-good evildoer, you.”_

_“Rude!!”_

_There was always a half-minute before physical manifestation into the circle to decide upon a semblance, a brief window to see your potential contractor and decide what aspect to present yourself with. The devil scanned this one quickly- scaring them is usually funny as hell, but this one’s mussed hair and heavily-lidded eyes gave him an air of unflappable stoicism that told the devil it probably wasn’t worth the attempt._

     Besides, _he thought wryly_ , I’m a traditionalist.

 

~~

     For a moment there was nothing, and Issei thought he might actually kick himself for wasting time on such a foolish notion.

     The moment ended in fire.

     Crimson flames burst from the center of the pentacle, licking up the invisible walls created by the seals around the central circle and filling the air with the sulfurous stink of brimstone. Issei almost stepped backward out of his circle, his heart beating a rapid staccato in his chest.

_Well holy shit, it worked._

     The flames eventually subsided, revealing a generally human form perching in midair as if on a throne.

     And he was buck naked.

     Issei wasn’t sure where to look. He’d have _liked_ not to look anywhere near the devil’s bare nethers, but the long, thin tail curling from just above his rear certainly drew attention. Issei’s eyes followed it down and around the devil’s knees and back up to where it curled just above his shoulder and ended in a spade-shaped tip conveniently close to the deep red horns that erupted from his forehead, breaking his hairline and curving backwards over his short-cropped hair, an auburn so light it actually appeared _pink_.

     Once the generalized shock of the horns and the tail and the raw amount of _skin_ on display wore off, Issei finally looked at the devil properly, and his mouth went completely dry.

     The devil was, to put it in layman’s terms, _damn fine._

     His refined cheekbones and jawline alone, had they been on any human being, were honestly probably enough to make Issei a little weak in the knees, and Issei couldn’t help but take note of his solid muscles and sturdy shoulders- he was smaller than Issei, but not by much. He did his best not to stare, but the devil’s self-satisfied smirk made him think he probably wasn’t doing a very good job. His heart stuttered when he noted the devil’s teardrop lip.

     But those eyes- violet, glowing as if lit from within by smoldering coals, animated with a slow kind of cunning and balancing just on the edge of laughter; the eyes of one waiting for you to get the joke- it was _those eyes_ that made Matsukawa begin to understand what tempted Eve into the original sin.

     Issei belatedly noticed the scent of flowers, incongruous but a balm against the lingering stink of sulfur from the summoning, and he knew he would forevermore associate that scent with the dusty rose hair and lavender eyes of the devil in front of him.

     The silence yawned heavily between them.

     “…Okay, it’s getting a little weird now. Are you gonna say anything, or…?” the devil flicked his tail impatiently, and Matsukawa jumped as if woken from a daydream.

     He blinked slowly, steadying himself. “Honestly, I don’t think I completely expected to get this far,” he croaked.

     The devil raised an (abnormally small) eyebrow, looking Matsukawa over and fully taking in his slightly oversized hoodie, the abused cuffs of his pants bagging around his ankles and socked feet, returning again to the mess of dark curls that had probably never been fully tamed in his life. “Clearly.”

     He let his head tip to the side, pursing his lips. For the first time, the devil really noticed how completely strung-out the guy looked, the bags under his dark eyes, mussed hair that had clearly been yanked half out of his skull in frustration, and general disheveled appearance matching the slightly haphazard atmosphere of the room- even the circle currently binding him was chalked onto the hardwood that had apparently been under the rug currently kicked sloppily against a wall. Despite this the pentagram itself was flawless- the kid had clearly done his homework. The overall effect of exhausted bewilderment was somehow abstractly charming, and the devil was struck by a sudden perverse compassion.

     “Well, since I’m your first, I’ll walk you through it. Don’t worry, I promise to be gentle.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. Matsukawa cringed with a muttered ‘oh my god,’ which the devil ignored. “First, you tell me what you called me here for. Now, Faust, what is it you’re after?”

     “‘Faust’?” Matsukawa arched an eyebrow.

     “Oh come on, you’ve read Goethe, right? All you little contractor nerdlings do. So,” the devil rested his chin on a hand with undue elegance. “ _Mein Name ist Hanamaki und B_ _öse ist mein Beruf._ ” He grinned, and Issei suppressed a shiver. “What can I do for you, O my Master?”

     “Firstly, _never call me that again._ ”

     The devil’s- Hanamaki’s- tail flicked. “What, not doing it for you? If you would prefer ‘Daddy’ I’ll do it, but I _will_ kinkshame-”

     “ _Secondly,_ ” Matsukawa pushed, “… I suppose you could say I need a little help with my homework.”

     “You _what._ ” Hanamaki’s tail lashed like an irritated cat’s.

     “All my homework. Until I graduate. I’m asking you to help me pass all my classes between now and commencement.”

     Hanamaki pursed his lips and studied his nails, bored. “Yeah sure, I can do that no problem, but don’t expect me to _actually_ do your homework for you, okay?” he sniffed. A vaguely-phrased contract like that? It would only be too easy to sabotage. Hanamaki took back his earlier comment that the walking disaster in front of him had done his research: he was _clearly_ a novice, flying on beginner’s luck. It was a little disappointing, honestly.

     “Hold up. I wasn’t done,” Matsukawa furrowed an eyebrow (which, considering their size, had an impressive effect). “First condition: payment due upon my _natural_ death- no offing me at the end of my four years in school. Second: you can only influence my marks, both individual assignments and overall semester grades, to ensure that they land between like a seventy-four and ninety-three, _completely randomized_ , with no discernible pattern or code that could hint at any shady dealings. You’re giving me a leg up, not blowing my cover. Oh, speaking of blowing,” he leveled Hanamaki with a meaningful stare, “your methods _will not_ include sleeping with, seducing, or otherwise directly influencing my professors _or_ their TA’s.”

     Hanamaki gave an appreciative whistle, his eyebrows approaching his hairline. “Well, well, looks like you’re not such a greenhorn after all!” he grinned toothily- all of a sudden, this job- or rather, the contractor- was looking a _lot_ more interesting; it had been ages since Hanamaki had had a real playmate.

     “Of course I know better than to leave a devil loopholes,” Matsukawa huffed, eyes sharp despite his exhaustion, “I’m not a _complete_ dunce.”

     “Says the guy who’s _quite literally_ selling his soul to pass his classes.”

     “ _Do we have a deal or not?_ ”

     Hanamaki tipped his head, appraising his potential master, while Matsukawa waited, holding his breath and feeling rather like a mouse before a cat.

     “Of course.” Hanamaki finally grinned, unfolding himself to his full height. (Matsukawa very pointedly maintained eye contact.) The candles sunk low, dropping the light in the room to an ominous glow, and the devil’s next words seemed to echo across the space between them.

     “I will aid my contractor in his endeavors following all aforementioned strictures and provisos, and see his ambition fulfilled. This is done  in return for the price of his immortal soul to be paid at the end of his mortal life; as per the terms of the contract. Do you accept my word as bond?”

     Matsukawa glanced at the hand held out to him, palm upturned as if it offered the world. He swallowed once, twice, until his heart felt returned to the vicinity of his chest, before meeting the eyes of the devil gazing down at him.

     “I accept.”

     The candles placed around the pentagram and scattered around the edges of the room flared far beyond their natural size, wreathing Hanamaki’s triumphant smirk in hellishly flickering red-gold light before dying back down and all but guttering out.

     “I look forward to working with you, then,” Hanamaki touched down lightly and stood properly for the first time. “Now are you going to let me out, or am I gonna spend the next four years in this circle?”

 

~~

     “You are the _worst_ blanket hog—I’m freezing my tail off over here, you despot!”

     “There’s plenty of space and blanket on the _couch._ ”

     Hanamaki gasped, scandalized. “Absolutely not, Caterpillar Brows!”

     (“Leave my brows out of this,” Matsukawa grumbled, which Hanamaki ignored.)

     “You’re my contractor now- for like four whole years- and it is _essential_ that we build a sense of camaraderie and rapport!”

     (“It _really_ isn’t,” was audible from the depths of Matsukawa’s pillow, and was again ignored.)

     “So if you’re not going to be a _decent human being_ ,”

     (“The devil’s going to lecture me on humanity. This is my life now.”)

     “Then you can just get used to _this._ ”

     Suddenly arms were around Matsukawa’s waist, pressing his back against a solid chest as a leg slung itself just below his hips, tangling itself lightly with Matsukawa’s.

     “ _What--_ ”

     “You did this to yourself.”

     “Dude, you’re _roasting_ , how can you say you’re cold-”

     “Maybe if you could loosen your grip on the blankets I wouldn’t have to huddle for warmth against your back, rippling and glorious though it is-”

     “I’m gonna die of heatstroke, get off-”

     “But alas! I must struggle for my lord and master, though I fear I may die of cold.”

     “ _Stop-_ ”

     “But I shall persevere, and may the broad expanse of my dear contractor’s shoulders save me from the cold embrace of Death, tho’ He come for us all in the end.”

     “ _Oh my god why are you like this, release me you_ actual _space heater._ ”

 

     It was going to be a long four years until graduation.


	2. getting to know you

             “No but seriously,” Matsukawa groaned as he rolled his neck, earning a satisfying series of cracks, “was it _completely necessary_ to hog my bed all night? I mean, do you even _need_ to sleep?” They had woken in a tangled mess of limbs, Hanamaki taking well over half of Matsukawa’s twin-sized bed and Matsukawa clinging to the edge for dear life lest he fall into the abyssal pocket that his room had become. It had been an hour since he woke up and he still couldn’t banish the crick in his neck.

            “Not necessarily,” Hanamaki shrugged disinterestedly, sleepshirt- one of Matsukawa’s old stretched out jerseys- slipping off his shoulder, “but it does pass the night, and I prefer to be well-rested when I work.”

            Matsukawa shot him a dead-eyed glare. In the watery light of the overcast morning, the gray bruises from yet another virtually sleepless night hung under his eyes even more prominently. “ _Really._ Do you, now?”

            “Hush your face.” Hanamaki sniffed delicately, giving Matsukawa the side-eye. “Just because devils _can_ go without any sleep here, doesn’t mean we _should._ Overwork makes bad results.”

            Matsukawa scoffed.

            “That goes for you, too.” Hanamaki folded his arms, stepping right up in Matsukawa’s face. “You look like you’re about to drop dead of exhaustion. Go back to bed, I’ll take care of everything today.”

            Matsukawa stared down at Hanamaki. “But my assignments…”

            “Dude, that is _literally_ what you hired me for.” Hanamaki rolled his eyes.

            “… And I don’t know if I trust you in my apartment unsupervised.”

            “Seriously? Look, I _promise_ I won’t sabotage anything, okay? My word is my bond here so I can’t lie to you, in case you’ve forgotten. Happy now??”

            Matsukawa narrowed his eyes. “I don’t think—“

            “ _Bed. Now._ ”

            It was only Issei’s fatigue that made him turn around and go back to his room. Definitely not the sight of Hanamaki maybe four inches from his face, tiny eyebrows scrunched into a scowl. It _certainly_ wasn’t Hanamakis outstretched arm pointing imperiously towards the bedroom in stark contrast with the, frankly, _adorable_ way his fingers only just poked past the sleeves of Issei’s shirt.

            It _definitely_ wasn’t that, and Issei was too tired to think about it.

            He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

 

            Hanamaki watched the bedroom door shut and heaved a sigh, mentally waving away the strange compassionate squeeze that had returned at the sight of Matsukawa’s gray face. He turned back to the general disaster area in front of him- the apartment clearly hadn’t been even tidied up in weeks.

            “Now then, where to begin?”

 

~~

            Issei woke up some time mid-afternoon feeling significantly better than he had in days. He was still a bit sore and his headache wasn’t completely gone, but it had receded to a tolerable level. At the very least, he could see straight again, which was nice.

            With consciousness came the sudden realization of just how _gross_ he felt- twin beds aren’t made for two people, after all, and close proximity to Hanamaki meant basking in what Issei suspected was  residual heat from the _very literal_ fires of Hell- getting sweaty was an inevitability.

            With a stretch and an appreciative groan, he grabbed a clean towel from the nearby linen closet and headed towards the bathroom.

            Soon he was sighing in golden contentment, rinsing shampoo suds from his hair as steam fogged the mirror, hot water coursing in rivulets down his back. One of the bulbs in the overhead light had blown out weeks ago, taking the atmosphere to a gentle ambiance, and the white noise of the shower chased out the static in his head like a breath of clean air blowing away old cobwebs.

            The shower curtain wrenched open like Hitchcock’s _Psycho._

            “Hey, are we—stop _screaming,_ it’s just me—are we out of cream puffs??”

            “What the _fuck,_ man,” Issei scrambled to cover himself, “why would you- what— Hang on,” he paused, having settled on the half of the shower curtain _not_ in Hanamaki’s paws and a demure three-quarters view, and narrowed his eyes, “ _did you just fucking meme at me??”_

            “He _can_ be taught!” Hanamaki grinned.

            “What the f— _how???”_ Issei seethed, tugging more of the shower curtain from Hanamaki’s hands to wrap around himself. “Do they _have_ stale memes in Hell??”

            “Dude, if you think it took me more than three tries to guess a _single one_ of your computer passwords-“

            “Oh my god,”

            “— _interesting_ porn preferences, by the way,”

            “ _Oh my god._ ”

            “-then you are _sorely_ mistaken. I thought grad students were supposed to be _smart,_ ” Hanamaki finished, looking down at Issei, who was hunched in on himself and tugging at his curls in frustration. “And I’ll be _damned_ if one of the first things I do back on earth after so many decades isn’t catching up on what I’ve missed.”

            “I don’t believe it. The devil I summoned is a _goddamn Memelord._ ” Issei groaned.

            “Yeah boi. By the way,” Hanamaki raised an eyebrow, looking Matsukawa over appreciatively, “you dropped your little shower curtain.”

            “ _OUT._ ”

 

~~

            Issei emerged from his room, pulling a clean sweater over his head.

            Something was definitely different about the apartment.

            It took him a couple moments to work out what exactly it was: it was actually _clean_.

            The garbage was out of the corners, the remains of last night’s summoning scrubbed away and the carpet replaced, the general detritus straightened and tidied away… even the _air_ seemed cleaner. It hit Matsukawa for the first time just how bad it had actually gotten- he generally liked to keep a fairly clean house, but everything had fallen by the wayside in the face of midterm exams.

            Hanamaki stuck his head out from the kitchen doorway.

            “Good timing. I was just making an early dinner.” He stepped partially out of the kitchen, and Issei almost choked.

_Lord strike me down where I stand, he is wearing an apron._

            “You cleaned.” He croaked instead.

            Hanamaki rolled his eyes. “ _Ob_ viously, but let’s not make a habit out of it, all right? I just don’t know how you expected to get any work done in that sty-“

            “Thank you.”

            That took Hanamaki by surprise. He blinked at Matsukawa, violet eyes blank.

            “Beg pardon?”

            Matsukawa shrugged. “You didn’t have to, it wasn’t part of your job. So thank you.”

            Hanamaki blinked at him a few more times.

            “You’re welcome.” He turned back into the kitchen.

 

            He hadn’t been prepared for that.

            It wasn’t that Hanamaki’d never had a master who had thanked him before. There had been a few; generally serial contractors of antiquity when demon-summoning had been something of a fad. Stuffed shirts, to a man. Sure of themselves and their power and complacent in their control, they had all been pompous, dismissive, business-as-usual: regurgitating part of a transaction by rote. Disingenuine. Bored and bor _ing_.

            But Matsukawa stood with the weak afternoon light painting his firm jaw and broad shoulders, meeting Hanamaki’s eyes like an _equal_. His still-damp hair was already curling over his forehead, eyes- Hanamaki had assumed them to be black but now saw that they were the color of darkest chocolate- open and frank as his head tipped forward in earnest thanks. Matsukawa _meant_ it.

            Reasonably rested and freshly-showered, with his oversized sweater just revealing the hollow at the base of his throat, it struck Hanamaki for the first time how objectively handsome Matsukawa was (in a rugged kind of way). This realization, following so closely on the heels of that disarmingly straightforward gratitude, left him rather off-balance.

            But Hanamaki was a professional. And professionals don’t have time for being off-balance.

            “Get in here and grab a bowl, would you? I didn’t slave over this ninety-seven-yen instant ramen for nothing, you know.”

 

~~

            After dinner (Matsukawa didn’t know whether it was black magic or the simple addition of some boiled egg and vegetables that made it so tasty), they took a look at Matsukawa’s calendar and due dates to make a plan of attack- true to his word, Hanamaki refused to do any assignments outright, but over the course of the following week he nonetheless proved to be immensely helpful in terms of doing basic legwork and generally speeding the process up. They quickly fell into a rhythm, often working side-by-side between Matsukawa’s classes on different pieces of research for a paper and sliding into easy banter (i.e.: razzing academic authors as a collective entity) when the workload allowed, or Hanamaki would help Matsukawa cram study for exams by running memory drills or letting Matsukawa walk him through complex areas as review. There were several occasions where Matsukawa, returning from a power nap, would find his desk area tidied from the disaster he had left it in, notes and data sorted neatly and ready to be utilized, or when he fell asleep at his desk altogether he often woke with a blanket draped over his shoulders and a steaming cup of coffee a safe distance from his elbow (usually along with another stack of grunt work for the next assignment). Hanamaki would periodically insist that Matsukawa take a break, physically draping himself across Matsukawa’s workspace if necessary.

            “You’re not going to get any work done if you burn yourself out, and I can smell the smoke from across the apartment,” he’d insist, queueing something up on Netflix. Matsukawa supposed he should be more grateful, but it was hard when Hanamaki’s taste in movies and TV was so _desperately_ atrocious. Even so, he began to enjoy those snatched evenings of laughter and cheesy B-list movies, draped over each other on the couch to get an equal view of the laptop screen.

            Overall, the week was a blur of slightly frantic industry punctuated by random, peaceful moments of increasing companionship that was almost beginning to border on domesticity.

 

~~

            “It is done,” Matsukawa intoned with an almost ceremonial level of solemnity as he closed the door and dropped his school bag at his feet, “we are _free_.”

            “The tyranny is over!” Hanamaki grinned from his perch at the far end of the couch, bookmarking his place in his novel (nicked from Matsukawa’s slightly dusty bookcase) with his thumb.

            “Mm,” Matsukawa groaned, kicking off his shoes and shedding his coat, “They may not be _pretty,_ but all the essays are in and I took my last exam today.” The front of his thighs pressed into the unoccupied arm of the couch, and he simply flopped forward, landing facedown next to Hanamaki’s hip with his feet hanging awkwardly in the air, his next words rather muffled: “It’s out my hands now.”

            “And into mine,” Hanamaki blinked down at Matsukawa before returning to his book. “That’s what I’m here for. As long as there’s an assignment to _grade,_ you literally can’t fail. I gotchu, fam.” He absently reached down and ruffled Matsukawa’s hair, letting his nails scratch lightly against Matsukawa’s scalp as Matsukawa sighed into the couch cushions.

            Issei let him, wondering mildly how he had become so comfortable so quickly with Hanamaki inviting himself into Issei’s personal bubble. He decided it probably had a lot to do with the simple fact that Hanamaki had introduced himself as a person ( _devil?_ ) with, _how you say_ …Issei mused, _very few boundaries_ , and hadn’t allowed Issei time to set up any of his own. It was entirely possible (indeed, entirely _probable_ ) that it had begun as an attempt to get under Matsukawa’s skin, and yet Hanamaki hadn’t stopped even after finding that it didn’t seem to affect him in the slightest- he just continued to use Issei as a cushion, armrest, et cetera whenever they were in a room together. At first Issei had merely figured it wasn’t worth the energy to protest, but now he had to admit- though never within Hanamaki’s earshot- that he was kind of enjoying the casual physical affection.

            “Hey, since Hell Week is over, let’s celebrate,” Hanamaki broke into Matsukawa’s thoughts. “Get out of the apartment. See the sun, like Real People.”

            Matsukawa hummed thoughtfully into the couch, turning his head to speak clearly (and further push the back of his head into Hanamaki’s palm for more head rubs). “Do you count as a ‘Real People’? Doesn’t the tail kind of disqualify you?” He smirked wryly up at Hanamaki through his lashes.

            Said tail flicked in annoyance. “ _Excuse_ you,” he began, flicking Matsukawa’s scalp, “if the last week is anything to go by, I’m a _much_ better People than you, Mr. Only-Remembers-to-Sleep-or-Feed-Self-When-Forced-by-Third-Party.”

            “I kid, I kid,” Matsukawa cut in with a laugh. “Couldn’t help it. But seriously, you really _can’t_ go out in public like that.” He eyed Hanamaki’s horns ironically.

            Hanamaki pursed his lips tartly down at Matsukawa, then closed his eyes. In a blink, the horns and tail were gone, burned away like scraps of paper held to a flame. He opened his eyes- dulled to a much more _human_ shade of gray-violet and no longer carrying the subtle glow- and arched an eyebrow down at Matsukawa.

            “Better, Prince of Eyebrows?”

            “Much,” Matsukawa pushed himself off his stomach and turned into a seated position, “where did you want to go, then?” Hanamaki grinned, accepting his victory.

            “Let’s start with a coffee.”

 

~~

            “Still dunno what’s wrong with _my_ coffee,” Matsukawa huffed.

            “That is not _coffee_ you make in that ancient little pot, it is _caffeinated tar_.” Hanamaki stated dryly as the bell above the café door chimed in welcome. “Also I have eaten instant ramen, boxed mac-and-cheese, and canned soup _exclusively_ for a full week- I still don’t know how you _live_ like this- and if I don’t get something sweet in my system I _may die_.”

            Matsukawa rolled his eyes, mumbling, “ _Drama queen_.”

            Hanamaki lightly punched his shoulder before strolling up to the counter and placing his order, waving Matsukawa after him with a “get over here, piggy bank” kind of look.

            Matsukawa was just paying the cashier when he overheard the barista calling Hanamaki’s name for pickup, and a thought occurred to him.

            “Is ‘Hanamaki’ even your real name?” he asked as soon as they were both seated, Hanamaki with his macchiato and a small tower of profiteroles and Matsukawa with his standard Americano/muffin- _du-jour_ combo.

            Hanamaki looked up from his macchiato in surprise, pausing with the ceramic cup resting just below his lip. He hummed in thought, letting his eyes slide to the side.

            “It’s an approximation into your language,” he began. “I don’t know exactly how the binding magic works, but the language used in the summoning determines the language and use-name we wind up using while in service on this side. When in Rome, and all that.” He popped a profiterole into his mouth thoughtfully. “Technically I guess it’s not really my _name_ , though. Kinda more like a title or something?” He shrugged.

            “Then what’s your name?”

            Hanamaki stared.

            “… ‘Takahiro’ is… closest. To my name.” He knit his brows suspiciously. “You know, you are without a doubt the weirdest contractor I’ve ever had.”

            Matsukawa slurped his coffee, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”

            “You’re _clearly_ a novice, yet you seem to know how to handle devils. You act aloof, but you’re surprisingly dedicated. You don’t treat me like a servant, even though you _should_.” Hanamaki returned his gaze to his coffee. “You mean it when you say ‘thank you.’ And you’re the first contractor to ask me my name,” his eyes flicked back to Matsukawa. “It’s downright _weird_ , I tell you.”

            Matsukawa settled in his seat with a relaxed smile. “Good weird, or bad?”

            Hanamaki pouted at him, trying to get a read, before popping another profiterole like candy. “Dunno yet. I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

            Matsukawa chuckled good-naturedly, letting his eyes drift closed.

            When he opened them, he found Hanamaki staring, lips parted like he forgot what he was doing.

            “…Okay, what? Do I have crumbs on my face, or something?”

            “You are _so weird_.”

 

~~

            They got home late from their outing: Hanamaki had dragged them several places, including at least three different clothing stores, at each of which he spent an hour minimum (so he could stop borrowing Matsukawa’s clothes), though he claimed Matsukawa decimating him at the arcade made up for it (a logic which Matsukawa failed to follow). After dropping their spoils from the day onto the couch they had a quick dinner (stir-fry, since Matsukawa insisted on groceries and fresh food was finally back in the house) and prepared almost immediately for bed.

            The clouds that had hung heavily in the sky all week finally broke as they were settling in, the rain quickly picking up into a steady downpour that drummed pleasantly against the roof and windows as Hanamaki clung to Matsukawa’s back like a koala to a branch.

            “For what it’s worth, you’re not quite what I expected either.”

            “How d’you mean?” Hanamaki hummed sleepily.

            “I mean whatever else you might like to pretend, you’re weirdly thoughtful and kind for a devil. Like with the cleaning and being a mother hen all week- you didn’t _have_ to do any of that, but you did. I just expected more moustache-twirling, I guess.”

            “I can grow a moustache if you want. A big ol’ handlebar one.”

            “Only if you also wear the top hat and monocle. And I get to wear the Damsel Dress.”

            Hanamaki swatted his back, shaking with laughter.

            “You are _so freakin’ weird_.”

            Maybe it was just the cold evenings, but Issei found he didn’t mind Hanamaki’s excessive warmth so much these days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which i am matsukawa (midterms whipped my ass)  
> thanks again to my beta readers!!


	3. are you there, God? it's me, Matsu

     “Oh, hey Matsu. Nice shirt. Is that for a band?”

     Matsukawa hummed a confirmation, bent over his notes at his desk. “I went to see them with a friend a few years back.”

     “Cool. Y’know, I’m wearing a band shirt, too, look.”

     Issei’s pencil froze on the paper as dark foreboding gripped his insides.

     “No. I don’t have to look, I know _exactly_ what you’re wearing, and I’m _not falling for it._ ”

     “Come on, Mattsun-“

     “I won’t.”

     “Just a peek-“

     “No.”

     “Please?”

     It was the ‘please’ that did it. _Just_ plaintive enough to still be charming. Matsu took a deep breath, sitting up straight and turning his eyes to heaven in a silent plea for God’s grace, before turning in his desk chair.

     Sure enough, there stood Hanamaki, all self-satisfaction in his plain white tee.

_“Good lord.”_

     “You know, sooner or later you’re going to have to give up on that turn of phrase,” Hanamaki’s tail flicked, “He’s _not_ listening.”

     Matsukawa studied the devil as he sauntered closer.

     “Was He ever?”

     Hanamaki looked up, pursing his lips and humming in thought.

     “Classified,” he sang, tail flicking as he leaned against Matsukawa’s desk.

     “…You have _no fucking idea,_ do you.”

     “You come into _my house,_ ” Hanamaki huffed as Matsukawa rolled his eyes. “What the heck are you doing, anyway?” Hanamaki invited himself onto the desk, sitting on about half of Matsukawa’s textbooks. “Studying? You _actual nerd_ , you don’t even _need_ to,” he draped himself across the remainder of Issei’s desk and papers, sticking his leg straight up for display with a sultry look, “you’ve got _me,_ remember?”

     Issei met Hanamaki’s fluttering lashes evenly. “Because, dingus, just because I have a safeguard against _academic_ failure, doesn’t mean I should slack off. I _do_ theoretically need to actually have a grasp on this stuff post-graduation.”

     Hanamaki dropped his leg with a dramatic groan. “You are no fun. None. At all.”

     “Tragic. My heart bleeds for you.”

     “You really ought to get that checked out.”

     “I’ll schedule an appointment with the doctor tomorrow.”

     “What, you don’t want Nurse Takahiro to take care of you?”

     “Depends. How’s your malpractice insurance?”

     Hanamaki’s pout was countered with a wry smirk.

     “…I’m coming back to dance on your grave when you die.”

     “Alright, but I accept only the Charleston or an Irish jig.”

     Violet eyes narrowed from a pout into an outright scowl. “I _hate you_.”

     Matsukawa licked his fingertip and mimed drawing a mark in the air with a smirk: one point to Matsukawa Issei.

     He may yet have been a novice at devil wrangling, but he was learning fast.

 

~~

 

     “Listen, all I’m saying is that movie was _terrible_. _Blindingly_ inaccurate. And that forgettable slob becoming _‘king of hell’_ or whatever?? _Please_ , any of the bums in Middle Management could _wipe the floor_ with him any day.”

     “Okay, okay, I believed you the first _five times_.” Issei chuckled only _slightly_ exasperatedly.

     They were draped all over each other on the couch, discussing the subject of their latest movie night, a cheesy flick about some guy accidentally falling into Hell and becoming a devil. Hanamaki hadn’t stopped pointing out flaws and plot holes after the first inaccuracy about eight minutes in (despite the fact that the movie had been his pick).

     He was still going, in fact.

     “Where _do_ devils come from, anyway?” Matsukawa cut through the ongoing ramble.

     Hanamaki grinned like a kid at Christmas. “Well, you _see_ , Mattsun, when a mommy devil and a daddy devil love each other _very much_ …”

     “Oh my god shut up shut _up_ ,” Matsukawa gave Hanamaki a rough shove, palming the devil’s cackling face but unable to suppress or hide his own smirk.

     “But in all seriousness,” Hanamaki shoved back, still giggling, “I don’t think anybody- at least, none of the rank and file- really knows. We’ve just kind of always been here, doing this, since time immemorial. Like, I don’t remember being a wee devil lad, and I’ve never seen any kids running around, so that likely rules out natural birth. Come to think of it,” he mused soberly, “I don’t even remember when I started. No first day jitters- I’ve just been doing this as far back as I can remember. Same with the other guys, I think. If any new faces show up it’s because they were transferred from other departments. For all I know, we just pop out of holes in the ground.” He laughed, perhaps a little weakly.

     Matsukawa stared, all traces of merriment gone.

     “Okay, what?” Hanamaki shifted uncomfortably.

     “You don’t remember _anything_ before this?”

     “No. So what??”

     “So nothing, that just seems… really lonely.”

     Hanamaki flushed. “Look, I don’t know who you think you are with your ‘sympathy for the devil’ edgelord _nonsense_ , but I don’t need your pity, okay?” he bit out, looking anywhere but at Matsukawa. “I’m a _literal devil_ , for fuck’s sake. Look, horns, tail and all!”

     “Okay.”

     “I mean, what do you think a childhood in Hell would even _look_ like?? I’m not missing out on anything!”

     “Okay.” Matsukawa scootched closer.

     “I’m gonna be taking your _soul_ at the end of all this! You don’t _get_ to feel sorry for me!” Hanamaki was floundering, getting pinker and pinker until it was hard to tell where his hair started.

     “Okay.” Matsukawa gently but firmly took the struggling devil into his arms.

     “What- No! Don’t touch me! _I am the night!_ ”

     “Shhh… Hush, my child,” Matsukawa hummed, stroking Hanamaki’s hair and wrapping his legs around the devil’s torso to further ensnare him. “You’re safe now.”

     All that could be heard from beneath Matsukawa’s arms was the low screeching of a confounded and trapped devil.

 

     For about the hundredth time that night, Issei stole a peek at Hanamaki while preparing for bed, searching for any lingering traces of the slight melancholy that he thought he had detected while they talked about Hanamaki’s childhood (or lack thereof). Finding nothing, he released a breath he didn’t think to notice he had been holding.

     He wasn’t used to seeing Hanamaki- memelord and Asshole Supreme, epitome of mischievousness and breezy confidence- behave anywhere in the neighborhood of gloom. Within about two seconds he had decided he didn’t like it.

     He much preferred seeing his friend- he realized with a start that he already considered Hanamaki to be one of his closest- laughing.

~~

 

     “I told you, I’m going to meet a friend,” Matsukawa sighed a week later, putting on his jacket, “and Iwaizumi’s _sensible_ , so please for once in your life just _pretend_ that you know how to behave.” He shot Hanamaki a pointed glare, as the latter was sitting on the bed, kicking his heels and pouting rather childishly.

     “Aww, and here I was going to hang off your arm and call you ‘Cream Puff’ the whole day.” Hanamaki teased, tipping his head back and fake-pouting even harder than before.

     “Not for the next two hours you won’t, Peaches.”

     Hanamaki snapped his head to look Matsukawa in the eye so fast Issei was surprised he didn’t hurt himself.

     “You flirted back…” Hanamaki murmured, awestruck, “You _actually flirted back!_ ” He became practically incandescent, all but sparkling with glee.

     “Consider it a down-payment,“ Issei put a finger to Hanamaki’s lips, cutting short the incoming babble, “on your good behavior for the next couple of hours.”

     Hanamaki just nodded, quivering beneath Issei’s fingertip, lips sealed but stretched into the biggest grin Issei had ever seen.

 

~~

 

     “What do you _mean_ ‘Omelette du Fromage’ doesn’t fit???” Hanamaki seethed down at Issei’s phone, tapping fruitlessly at the Exeggcute he had just caught while Issei loped along next to him.

     “Please, that's _so_ stale. We only allow the _freshest_ of memes in this house.”

     “If you can’t harvest your memes fresh, store bought is fine.” Hanamaki volleyed back, flicking another pokeball as the battle theme jangled quietly from Issei’s speakers. Issei rolled his eyes with a quiet grin before spotting a familiar face coming from the opposite direction. Iwaizumi walked toward their meeting spot, chatting animatedly with someone Issei didn’t recognize.

     They cut quite a picture: Iwaizumi wasn’t necessarily short per _se_ , but the stranger was visibly taller, modelesque, and his copper hair looked like silk- Iwaizumi’s short crop looked, as ever, rather like he had stuck his tongue in a toaster. The stranger was smooth where Iwaizumi was rugged, svelte where Iwaizumi was brawny, sleekly put together where Iwaizumi was rough around the edges. The effect was of complementary opposites, contrasting but ultimately balanced.

     “Here come dat boi. Idunno who he’s with, though.” Issei raised a brow.

     “Oh shit, waddup.” Hanamaki chimed in without even looking up.

     Issei called to Iwaizumi, who waved and quickened his pace. It was only moments before the two parties converged on the corner that Hanamaki looked up, and his steps faltered.

     “Oikawa?”

     The tall stranger’s attention snapped to Hanamaki, eyes narrowing behind his glasses before widening in recognition.

     “ _Makki!!_ ” He all but sang, sprinting forward to meet Hanamaki’s embrace, both of them shrieking not unlike sorority girls.

     “-I don’t believe it-“

     “-What are you doing here-“

     “-You _sly dog,_ you should have _told_ me you were in the area-“

     “-I didn’t know _this_ was where you were assigned!”

     Issei and Iwaizumi watched them with wide eyes.

     “So, uh… they seem to have met.”

     Issei nodded, equally dumbfounded at the scene in front of them, then froze as two and two came together. “Hang on- if they’ve met…” He  looked down at Iwaizumi, eyes widening. “You didn’t.”

     Iwaizumi snapped his attention to Matsukawa, eyes wide as he reached the same conclusion.

     “… I think it’s pretty clear that I _did_.” He finally admitted, letting his gaze drop.

     Issei stared for a moment, then heaved a great sigh, closing his eyes and rolling his head back dramatically. “I don’t believe it,” he moaned, “ _The_ sensible, upright, _honorable_ Iwaizumi Hajime, making a _pact with a devil_.”

     Iwaizumi punched his arm. “Shut your face, you don’t know what Professor Hizawa’s exams are _like._ Besides, you _literally did the same_.”

     Issei laughed, rubbing his bicep. “Sure, but people probably kind of _expect_ this bullshit from me. From the great Iwaizumi, clear-eyed and noble? Not in a million years.”

     Iwaizumi glowered. “A moment of weakness.”

     “Cheers, then,” Issei gave a rueful smile and held his fist up for a bump, “to the Moment of Weakness Club. May we regret to the end of our days.”

     Iwaizumi gently tapped his knuckles against Matsukawa’s. “God help us.”

     Issei gave another wry smirk.

     “I think we’re a little _past_ that point.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the gang's all here!!  
> sorry for the unintended and unannounced hiatus, final semester was whipping my ass  
> the good news is: they're over!! SCHOOL'S OUT FOREVER, IT'S GRADUATION TIME BITCHEEEEESSSS
> 
> thanks as always to my beta readers!!


	4. coffee dates

            Finally, the four of them sat jammed into a corner booth at the café, proper introductions made, Hanamaki and Oikawa still going strong on their demon world gossip.

            “You’ll never believe it- Yahaba got an assignment!”

            “ _Our_ Yahaba? You mean our baby boy is growing up??” Issei cringed as Hanamaki wiped away a fake tear. “My son is finally moving up in the world…”

            Oikawa rolled his eyes. “I mean, yeah, have you _seen_ that hellhound wrangler he runs around with? Hells, he looks half hellhound _himself_. I bet head office took _one look_ at that absolute _beast_ Yahaba’s somehow wrapped around his little finger, and decided he’s more capable than he looks.”

            “Jesus _Christ_ , Assikawa,” Iwaizumi pinched the bridge of his nose. He glanced up at Hanamaki. “Has he _always_ been like this, or am I being punished for something?” Oikawa looked offended, opening his mouth to speak, but something in Hanamaki leapt:

            “Nononohangonhangon—“ he half stood, whisking the glasses off Oikawa’s face and switching them to his own as he settled back in his seat, and Issei was sure he knew what was coming as Hanamaki put on the smuggest grin the world had ever seen. “-Words can’t hurt me, these glasses are Gucci.”

            Iwaizumi deadpanned as Issei suppressed a snort.

            “But they _are_ Gucci frames! Hanamaki, you can tell?? I thought you didn’t care about fashion!” Oikawa’s eyes widened, innocent of the litany of inane humor that is The Internet.

            Hanamaki crowed with laughter and Issei finally lost it, leaning back against the seat and cackling right next to Hanamaki, who had to cling to Issei’s shoulder for support.

            “See, this? This right here?” Iwaizumi gestured, indicating the pile of hysterics that Matsukawa and Hanamaki had devolved into, “This is why you and I never worked out, Matsu. Incompatible senses of humor. Namely, yours is _crap._ ”

            “At least I _have_ one,” Matsukawa choked, barely gathering himself and wiping real tears of hilarity from his eyes, grinning good naturedly at Iwaizumi. Hanamaki had somehow slid off his shoulder and was now giggling maniacally into his arms, facedown on the table and almost completely insensible. Matsukawa glanced down at him with a chuckle: “You’re just a _little too_ proud of that.”

            “ _I am,_ ” gasped Hanamaki, voice muffled by his arms, “I _really am_.”

            “Woah wait hold up-” Oikawa’s eyes widened, “you guys used to _date_??” he marveled, staring between Iwaizumi and Matsukawa as Hanamaki’s giggling fell abruptly silent, unnoticed by the rest of the quartet. If Issei didn’t know better, he’d have guessed at a glint of anxious possessiveness behind the look Oikawa shot at Iwaizumi, while beside him, Hanamaki finally managed to lift his head out of his arms to stare. If he had thought to look, Issei might have noticed Hanamaki holding his breath.

            “Briefly, a long time ago,” Issei shrugged.

            “We figured out pretty quick that we worked better as friends.” Iwaizumi chimed in.

            “Yes, ours is truly the purest and most platonic of loves.” Issei chuckled as they shared a fond grin in mutual reminiscence over their young, naïve selves.

            “ _Ohthankgod_ ,” Hanamaki dropped his head back into his arms. “I don’t know _what_ I’d do if I had to compete with those biceps.”

            “Tell me about it,” Oikawa whined, sagging in his seat with relief. “I could _grate cheese_ on yours’ jawline, Makki. And his _shoulders._ ” He lifted his hands, pantomiming the outline of the shoulders in question in the air on front of him. Without lifting his head, Hanamaki made the universal ‘ _delicioso_ ’ hand gesture, thumb and forefinger pinched gently and long fingers splayed gracefully outward, and made a small noise halfway between general assent and a bedroom moan.

            Matsukawa and Iwaizumi, for their parts, studiously avoided all eye contact, red-faced and shifting uncomfortably in their seats until the topic switched to something more general.

 

~~

 

            It was early evening by the time the party finally parted ways and Hanamaki and Matsukawa turned towards home.

            “So, that Oikawa sure is… something. Has he always been so…?” Matsukawa drifted off, searching.  
            “Extra?” Hanamaki grinned. “Yeah, pretty much. Knows his stuff, though. Word has it he was legendary in his department before he was transferred, corrupted any soul he came across no matter who they were- employee of the month for ages; insisted on a new portrait every time too, I’m told…”

            “’Employee of the month’?” Issei scoffed, “You’re screwing with me.”

            “That an invitation?”

            A light punch landed on Hanamaki’s arm. “You know what I meant.”

            Hanamaki glanced at Issei out of the corner of his eye (rubbing his shoulder as he did so). “But no, not screwing with you. We devils are but lowly employees to the Big Man downstairs. Contracting in exchange for souls is very literally my Actual Job.”  
            “Huh. So what happens to a soul once the contract is up, exactly? What, do you eat it?”

            Hanamaki scoffed. “No, we don’t eat them. Think of us like brokers working for a firm: we manage the transaction, but payment goes directly to the firm before the firm pays us. I don’t actually know what happens after…”

            Matsukawa had gone another two paces before he realized Hanamaki’s steps had faltered and stopped.

            “After what?” he cocked his head back at Hanamaki.

            Hanamaki blinked, coming back into focus.

            “After I give your soul to them.”

 

~~

 

            Hanamaki looked over his shoulder at Matsukawa’s sleeping form, not for the first time since creeping out of bed and to the windowsill an hour ago. The orange streetlights lined his bare shoulders and horns as he stared at the steady rise and fall of Matsukawa’s chest, letting his gaze linger on the hand flung out to Hanamaki’s empty half of the bed.

            Half-snorting in annoyance he turned back to the window, searching for a star through the city’s light pollution.

            He had been off-balance since their conversation leaving the café, half-formed thoughts drifting in and out, like a radio station he couldn’t quite tune in.

            Matsukawa’s shrug and breezy “oh well” drifted unbidden out of the static, making Takahiro’s jaw clench. How on earth could he have been so blasé about the fate of his immortal soul? Sure, Matsu had already agreed to hand it over- as he had pointed out himself in surprise at Hanamaki’s apparent frustration- but still, his own soul, the thing that made him not just Matsukawa Issei, but _Mattsun_ … and he just shrugs it off like an old sweater? Takahiro’s tongue still hurt with all the things he literally bit back from throwing into Matsu’s face.

            It was the closest they had ever gotten to a real fight.

            Takahiro knit his brows into a scowl, glaring at a moth fluttering beneath the streetlight opposite. Why did he care so much, anyway? It’s just a soul… all humans have one. Most don’t know where their own souls go anyway, now he thought of it… of course, most don’t sell their soul either, not to a devil that can’t even tell them what’s going to happen to it…

            It felt like knives were tearing his guts apart.

            The weak moonlight mixed with sodium glow glinted off his horns as he scrubbed his hands through his hair, holding his breath and staring at the space on the sill between his elbows.

            With a long exhale he dropped his forehead to the cool wood of the windowsill before straightening up and padding over to the desk, hastily scrawling a note on a piece of scratch paper, and folding it up neatly on his way back to the window.

            He leaned again onto his elbows, his head and shoulders leaning outside into the sleeping street. The slightest of breezes tickled across his bare skin. He raised the note to eye level, contemplating it.

            Very carefully, as if making a wish on a dandelion, he put his lips together and blew, the note burning away and drifting into the night, ashes on the breeze.

 

            “Where are you headed off to?” Matsukawa casually surveyed Hanamaki over his coffee cup, leaning against the wall and half-silhouetted against the midmorning light.

            “Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.” Hanamaki chirped, tying up his shoelaces instead of meeting Matsukawa’s gaze. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back before you know it.”

 

~~

 

            “So why’d you call me here so soon? Did you miss me already?” Oikawa sang as he slid into the seat opposite Hanamaki, steaming flat white already in hand. He had ditched the glasses today, opting instead for a fashionably draped scarf.

            “I just wanted to talk about work away from the impressionable ears of our dear contractors. How’s yours?”

            Oikawa laughed breezily. “Wrapped around my little finger, of course.”

            Hanamaki flicked his gaze over Oikawa’s left shoulder. “Oh hey, Iwaizumi. Wow, what’s got your knickers in such a twist?”

            Oikawa yelped, flinching and turning to check his six.  
            “Makki, you _prick_!” Oikawa whined over Hanamaki’s cackling, rubbing the fresh crick in his neck. “That was cruel, even for you!”

            “But _so_ worth it,” Hanamaki wheezed. “But seriously, that reaction—what, is he a slave driver or something? Are you gonna be okay?”

            “No no no, it’s nothing like that,” Oikawa blinked, still massaging his neck. “I mean, yeah, ‘grumpy’ seems to be his base state of being and he’s _terrifying_ when he’s really mad, but I swear he’s an okay guy. He doesn’t look it, but he’s a real mother hen.” He allowed a soft smile, staring into his coffee. “In fact, sometimes he’s almost _sweet_.”

            Hanamaki grinned wolfishly. “There’s a former Incubus-Class for you. How long did it take for him to succumb to your charms?”

            “You know, he might just be the first human who _hasn’t_?” Oikawa pouted. “ I’ve never _once_ had this much trouble corrupting someone before- it’s _actually_ starting to annoy me.”

            “For real?? Dang, is he some kind of saint or something?” Hanamaki whistled incredulously.

            “He just might be. His summoning ritual was _crazy_ traditional, sutras and incense and everything.”

            “Hah, mine did a Western-style summoning. I think he found a translated copy of Lanterne, or something.”

            “No kidding. And how is he?”

            “Oh, you know. The usual.”

            “Yeah-huh,” Oikawa raised an eyebrow. “I’m _sure_ that’s why you woke me up in the middle of the night, asking to meet separately from our contractors at the earliest possible convenience. Because everything is _business-as-usual_.”

            Hanamaki swallowed as subtly as possible.

            “Can’t a guy just… want to chat with an old friend?”

            _Damn._

            This had been _much_ easier in Hanamaki’s head.

            “Makki…” Oikawa gave him a flat, piercing look, which Hanamaki diligently avoided. “You _know_ I can tell when you’re off. It’ll be easier if you just tell me now. We both know I’ll get it out of you eventually anyway.”

            It wasn’t a threat, not really, but there was something at the edge of Oikawa’s tone that hinted it _could_ be.

            Hanamaki scowled at the window. “Have I ever told you just how _freaky_ it is when you read people like that?”

            “At least once a week.”

            “Well, it’s true. You’re _wasted_ as a Contract-Class-- Seduction  & Damnation must have lost their damn minds to have ever given you up.”

            “Tell that to my old boss. You’re still dodging the question.”

            Hanamaki scowled harder, kissing his teeth.

            “… Mattsun-- my contractor- asked me what happens to souls when their contract is up. I didn’t know the answer.”

            Oikawa simply waited, observing Hanamaki over the rim of his cup. Hanamaki worked his jaw for a minute before folding his arms across the tabletop and leaning heavily on them, staring into his coffee cup.

            “I felt… guilty. That I couldn’t tell him.”

            Oikawa pursed his lips, staring at the couple in front of the bookstore across the street.

            “… Now this is just hearsay, all right? But some of the guys have this theory- just a theory, mind- that we devils are all former contractors. They think that at the end of a contract, the damned soul is wiped clean of its memories of life and reshaped as a devil to go collect more innocent souls.”

            Hanamaki stared. “We were contractors?”

            “It’s just a theory. I’m still not sure I buy it, myself. But who knows,” Oikawa smiled breezily, “maybe someday we’ll all be working together.”

            Hanamaki was forced to take a slightly overlarge gulp of coffee in an effort to return his heart to its proper place- for some reason he didn’t want to think about, it seemed to have leapt to somewhere near the hanging lamp above their table.

            Oikawa regarded him shrewdly.

            “That wasn’t all, was it?”  
            He didn’t say it like a question.

            Hanamaki closed his eyes. “I regret ever becoming your friend.”

            “Rude.” Oikawa leaned back in his seat, taking an elegant sip. “Come on- spit it out, or I’ll tell the whole department about the Tomato Fettuccini Incident of 1902…”

            “ _You wouldn’t dare._ ” Hanamaki finally met Oikawa’s shrewd gaze with a glare. Oikawa merely raised an eyebrow and tipped his head meaningfully. Hanamaki sighed, burying his head in his arms on the tabletop.

            His next words came haltingly, like he was dragging them hand-over-hand from somewhere deep.

            “…I was angry. When I realized someone else would touch his soul. I didn’t want it to be anyone but me.”

            Oikawa surveyed his friend, his next words quiet, gentle.

            “What you said about being jealous, competing with Iwa-chan… wasn’t really a joke, was it?”

            Hanamaki lifted his head just enough to give Oikawa a perceptive look of his own.

            “Neither was yours.”

            Oikawa’s eyes widened for a moment, then closed in a chagrined smile and shrug.

            “You got me. Guilty as charged.”

            Hanamaki dropped his head back into his arms with a groan.

            “Satan’s salty asshole. Falling for our marks- some professionals _we_ are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual, apologies for the whoops-a-daisy hiatus, i ran headlong into some life roadblocks that kinda sapped my will for everything for a while. but i'm back, and i'm ready to get this thing done!  
> thanks as always to my beta readers!


	5. there's something about Makki

            Issei had never once considered himself a romantic.

            He was rarely the person to make the first move towards a relationship, and almost always the person to end it. When passing couples in public, he was rarely troubled by jealousy. Domesticity was pleasant in theory, but generally more trouble to obtain than its worth.

            And yet here he was, drinking in the sight of Hanamaki curled towards him, lashes pressed against his cheekbones and lips only just parted in sleep. One arm curled under his head and the other was tucked in front of him, hand was stretched forward just enough that his knuckles brushed against the side of Issei’s palm, and Issei felt so inexplicably and disproportionately _soft_ , warm and melting and golden in this privileged view of Hanamaki Takahiro, meme-ing and scheming jackass extraordinaire, at his most delicate and innocent in the vulnerability of sleep.

            He couldn’t even have said for sure when this tenderness started. About a week into their contract, he had caught Hanamaki’s gaze dropping to his lips and felt his heart trip over a beat- he had shrugged it off at the time, but thinking back maybe that was when the seed had been planted. Certainly he hadn’t thought any more of it since, though he was gradually becoming aware that his blatant favoritism, his ready acceptance of Hanamaki’s casual affection, wasn’t _nothing_.

            But it wasn’t until horsing around while making dinner together the other night that he knew for sure.

            Whatever joke Issei had made was lost to time, eclipsed by the way Hanamaki had cackled, lightly punching him in the stomach with both fists before throwing his weight against Matsu’s solid frame. It was in that instant of Makki sticking his tongue out, eyes crinkled shut in laughter as his arms closed around Matsu’s waist, that Issei’s heart swelled straight out of his chest and up to heaven like a little red balloon, disappearing against the sun of Hanamaki’s smile, and Issei knew as sure as he had ever known anything in his life that _sweet shit, he was Fucked._

            He came crashing back to earth as Hanamaki shifted, making a tiny humming noise and scrunching his face. Matsu snatched back the hand he hadn’t even realized had been brushing Makki’s hair and carefully arranged his face into a placidly casual mask with which to meet Hanamaki’s bleary gaze.

            “Mattsun…?”

            (Issei ignored the way his heart fluttered.)

            “Morning, sleepyhead. Want some breakfast?”

 

~~

 

            “ _Oikawa, help me_ ,” Hanamaki whined, facedown on a park table, “You’re the seduction expert. I have _intentionally_ been sending _super-obvious_ signals _all week_ and he’s barely even _blinked_.”

            Oikawa slurped at his straw obnoxiously, blinking at Hanamaki. “Welcome to my life.” He expertly dodged the empty street food wrapper sailing by his ear. “I mean, are you _sure_ you’ve been obvious _in relation_ to how you started? What is he comparing against?”

            “Of course it’s obvious, I’ve practically been draping myself all over—“ Hanamaki was pulled up short by a sudden, _vivid_   recollection of insisting on sharing a bed and subsequently full-body hugging the then-complete-stranger he had met less than an hour before on that fateful first night as contractor and devil. “… _Ssssssshit._ ”

            “Mm-hmmm,” Oikawa sipped his bubble tea placidly, point made. “If it’s any comfort, I’m in practically the same boat. Whenever we’re out, girls keep coming up to me and-” as if on cue, a fit of feminine giggles erupted somewhere over Makki’s right shoulder and Oikawa reflexively flashed his most winning smile and a little wave back, “-and doing _that_. The brave ones even ask me out on the spot, right in front of him.” He pouted as Hanamaki grinned wryly.

            “You do your old department proud, former Incubus of the Month.”

            “ _Excuse_ you, of the _year_. For eighty-three years _running_.”

            “Humble.”

            “The _point_ is,” Oikawa huffed, “I can never make anything we do feel like a _date_ if it keeps getting interrupted by-” another chorus of titters (this time from almost directly to Oikawa’s left), another automatic smile calculated to charm, punctuated by more elated shrieks, “- a _gaggle of giggling girls_.” He ground to a finish, just this side of seething.

            “I think I’m starting to see what you mean,” Hanamaki watched blithely as the next batch of blushing girls altered their migratory pattern to bring them slightly closer to Oikawa’s orbit, as if he were a force of nature strong enough to create his own gravity. He pursed his lips, thinking. “Maybe we’re going about this the wrong way?”

            “How do you mean?”

            “Well…” Hanamaki paused, swirling the contents of his own bubble tea, “You can’t go out in public for fear of getting swarmed. I’m running up against a wall by myself. Maybe we should…”

            “Join forces?” Oikawa’s eyes were sharp, alight at the possibility of a new scheme.

            Hanamaki nodded. “Exactly.”

 

~~

 

            “Password?”

            “We brought booze and video games and _you invited us, dumbass_.”

            Matsukawa grinned and stood back, holding the door open so Iwaizumi and Oikawa could pass through, the bag nestled in the crook of Oikawa’s arm clinking promisingly. “Get in here and get them vidyas hooked up. Pizza should be getting here soon; Makki ordered.”

            “Bitchin, what kind?”

            “None pizza with left beef,” Matsu grinned, “Extra large. _Both_ of them.”

            “You _didn’t._ ” Iwaizumi stared in horror as Oikawa blinked between them, lost.

            “I _tried,_ ” Makki whined, “but they took away that glitch. I had to settle for Hawaiian- with _extra_ pineapple.”

            Iwaizumi narrowed his eyes. “You’re a _monster_.”

            “Pick your battles, mate.” Matsu grinned, slapping Iwaizumi genially on the back. Iwa rolled his eyes and went for the TV with an armful of electronics while Oikawa busied himself pouring everyone vodka sodas and Makki went to answer the doorbell, Matsu’s wallet in hand.

            Soon they were all gathered in the living room, pizza (only one of which contained pineapple and which Makki and Matsu had to themselves) and drinks in hand.

            “You two look… _cozy_.” Oikawa pouted at the tangle of limbs Makki and Matsu had made in the aftermath of their squabble for the best controllers (“Because it _totally matters,_ ” as Matsu had said, rolling his eyes before fighting Makki for the pink one and losing).

            “Jealous?” Makki waggled his eyebrows from his position across Matsu’s rippling abs.

            “ _No._ ” Oikawa sniffed, turning his face instead to watch Iwaizumi futz with the TV wires to underline his point (despite shooting Hanamaki a “ _you-know-perfectly-well-that-I-am-_ obscenely _-jealous-you-little-shit_ ” side-eyed glare). Unseen by both Matsukawa and Iwaizumi, Hanamaki stuck his tongue out at Oikawa triumphantly.

            “Hey, Matsu. You know what we haven’t played in a while?” Iwaizumi turned to look over his shoulder, holding up a controller in one hand and a whiskey bottle in the other with a wolfish grin. “Pass-It.”

            Matsu grinned.

            “I like the way you think.”

 

            “ _This,_ ” Oikawa declared blurrily hours later, swaying where he sat, “is a _very good game_.”

            “I’ll drink to that! Mattsun, pass me the bottle so I can drink to that.”

            The rules of Pass-It Tag-Team Edition were simple: players divide into two teams. One member of each team takes a controller. The other member takes a bottle. At the end of each round, team members switch places. Play continues until either there is a clear victor, or players are too drunk to continue.

            Current teams: Contract pair Meme Team versus Contract pair Dream Team.

            It was the tie-breaking third Grand Prix of the night (player switch each race), and Rainbow Road had claimed even more victims than usual.

            Team Standings: pending.

            “Mattsun. Mattsun, you prick, pass me the bottle. I am _going_ to drink to that.”

            “Nooooo,” he hugged the bottle to his chest like his firstborn child, “’S _my turn_.”

            Iwaizumi laughed as Hanamaki lunged crookedly over Matsu’s body, knocking him onto his back in a bid for the bottle, Matsukawa’s superior reach keeping it safe and sound.

            “D’you guys want to switch it up?”

            Oikawa blinked puppyishly at his contractor. “What’d you have in mind?”  
            “Y’wanna try Portal2?”

            “Oh _noooooooo,_ ” Matsu giggled, staring upside-down at Iwaizumi from the floor, still keeping the bottle out of Hanamaki’s grasp. “We’ll _never_ finish level _one_.”

            “Les’ _do it_.” Oikawa slapped the floor with an open palm, nearly upsetting the freshly opened bottle Iwaizumi had unwisely set down.

            “We sh’d switch teams!” Hanamaki blurted around the hand Matsu was using to keep him at bay. “Devils versus Humies!”

            Iwaizumi and Matsu stared at each other for a moment before breaking into identical grins.

            “Yer feck’n _funeral_.”

 

~~

 

            “Makki. Hey, Makki.”

            Hanamaki peeled himself off the cushions thrown onto the floor and pressed a hand to his aching skull, groaning aloud the whole way: “Augh, Hell’s _teeth!_ ”

            “Yeah, and some other bits, too: your halo’s showing.”

            “Oh, _har har_.”

            Oikawa raised his eyebrows, haggard gaze remaining pointedly on the space just above the tips of Hanamaki’s horns. Stretching his field of vision up as high as he could (especially difficult against the pounding legacy of the five straight liquor bottles from the night before), Hanamaki could just make out the mauve and palest blush of the living wreath of petals above his head, budding and blooming and dying, twisting together in an ever-changing möbius. He was a little surprised he hadn’t noticed the snow-like fall of petals sooner.

            “Oh. Well, paint me purple and call me a people-eater.” He pressed the heels of his palms over his eyes, screwing up his face in concentration; it was _much_ harder doing this with a hangover.

            “S’okay. Mine was hanging all out, too. If anyone asks, I drool in my sleep. Like, a _lot._ ”

             “Yike.” With a final dusting of petals across his shoulders the halo burned away, leaving his horns unadorned.

            “Mm,” Oikawa dragged a hand over his face. “Anyway, s’not why I woke you up. Operation ‘the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach’ is Go.”

            “Operation _what now_?”

            Oikawa rolled his tired eyes. “Just get up. We’re making breakfast.

            “No, we need to talk about that lame-ass codename-- and breakfast? Dude, _you can’t cook_.”

            Oikawa scowled. “Right. Because- with one noticeable exception, apparently- I can seduce anyone with a pulse; I can curse, conjure, and damn; I can cast illusions and bespell things both living and dead; but I _can’t put together a friggin’ omelet_. Have a little faith, Makki.”

            Makki heaved himself to his feet and stuck his hand out, pulling Oikawa up after him.

            “Sure, whatever- just leave the heavy lifting to me.”

 

            “Trashikawa, you can _cook_??” Iwaizumi stared at the plates piled in the center of the table skeptically. “This isn’t gonna like, kill us or anything, is it?”

            “Rude, rude, _rude!!_ Not you, too, Iwa-chan!”

            Matsu, for his part, was still trying to conceal the heart attack he had sustained upon dragging his hungover ass into the kitchen.

            Nobody could deny that Oikawa with an apron tied loosely over an otherwise bare chest and sweatpants slung _low_ on his hips was _stunning_. Modelesque. A picture to behold.

            Which only made it slightly _more_ worrisome that Issei only had eyes for Hanamaki. Also shirtless, also aproned, it was all Issei could do not to stare- at least, not _too_ openly- at the way the fabric of the apron draped so _lusciously_ over Hanamaki’s chest-abs-waist-hips, the way the v of his hipbones peeked coyly above the waistband of his pjs; to watch in abject awe as his shoulders shook with silent snickers at Oikawa’s expense under the apron strings, as his muscles flexed to expertly flip pancakes on the griddle, every curve and line gilded by the midmorning sun streaming through the kitchen windows. He didn’t know _how_ Iwaizumi could gaze upon such a scene unaffected.

            It was only with utmost reluctance that he came back to reality, dialing back in on Iwaizumi’s and Oikawa’s bickering.

            “After all my hard work these months past- where is the _trust_??”

            “Yeah, I trust you _about_ as far as I can throw you.”

            Matsu leaned closer to Iwaizumi’s ear to murmur as Oikawa spun, wailing, to drape himself over Hanamaki, seeking solace.

            “You know, I _have_ wrestled with you- that’s probably actually pretty far.”

            Iwaizumi glanced sharply at Matsukawa before averting his gaze.

            “Yeah, well… just shut up.”

            Matsu followed Iwaizumi’s line of vision to Oikawa’s broad shoulders, watched it dip quickly over the rest of Oikawa’s long frame, and made note of the slightly pink tips of Iwaizumi’s ears.

            _Huh._

            Maybe he wasn’t as unaffected as Issei thought.

            Movement brought his attention back to Hanamaki’s- there was no other word for it- devilish grin.

            “As much fun as we’re all having tormenting Oikawa-“

            “ _Traitor!_ ”  
            “-Breakfast is served.” Hanamaki finished, setting down a towering plate of steaming banana pancakes with a flourish.

            Everything was agreed to be delicious- even the omelets.

 

~~

 

            Issei glanced up nervously from his pre-exam cram session notes, surreptitiously examining the devil curled up at his feet while Hanamaki placidly sat proofreading Matsu’s final essay for him. His heart gave a not altogether unpleasant squeeze as he watched Makki press the end of his correcting pen (hot pink for high visibility) against the edge of his lips.

            Makki must have felt him staring, because he looked up, catching Issei in that arrestingly violet gaze.

            “What’s up?”

            Matsu dropped his attention back to his notebook.

            “Nothing.”

            This was no good. It felt like ever since he had become aware of his feelings he was _hyper_ aware of Makki, noticing something new to be charmed by approximately every hundred seconds or so. His heart simply wouldn’t be able to hold out under a sustained four-year heart attack. The realization of his time limit- four years suddenly seemed _far_ too short- made his heart give another squeeze, and this one was definitely painful.

            He would have tell him.

            Another glance between Makki and his notebook, and Matsu made his decision.

            After finals. Once the final exam crunch was over, he could tell him. He’d waited for Hanamaki all this time- he could wait just two weeks more.

            After finals for sure.

 

            Matsu stood on the sidewalk staring at the building opposite his last final exam, shell shocked. Where the _hell_ had the last twelve days gone? Almost two weeks had seemed like plenty of time to prepare when he had made that foolish promise to himself- now he was starting to think he should have shot for something more reasonable, like when he was 50.

            Well, he was gonna have to go home and face the music sooner or later. At the thought of seeing Hanamaki, of _telling_ him, his heart beat faster, as if it knew that there was every possibility of Hanamaki’s answer causing it to shrivel up and die.

            He held his breath, staring up at the glorious spring sky.

            Whatever else happened, it was a lovely day for his heart to die on.

 

~~

 

            Hanamaki grinned as he heard the door close, drying his hands on a towel as he bustled away from the kitchen sink. “Ayyy, he lives! The man, the myth, the le- _whoah_. Are you okay, man? You look like you’re going to a funeral.”

            Matsu gave him a gallows look.

            “Can we talk?”

            “Well, _that_ doesn’t sound ominous,” Hanamaki chuckled nervously before following Matsu into the living room. He watched Matsu’s stiff back trudge towards the couch and tried to convince himself that there was no reason to be on alert, that Matsu’s lagging pace and hunched shoulders meant nothing. “Dude, what happened? Are you okay?”

            “I think we need to re-negotiate the terms of the contract.”

            The ice that Hanamaki had been holding back finally flooded his veins.

            Shit, shit, _shit._ What did he do? Had he pushed Matsu too far- had his teasing and cajoling finally crossed a line? Had Matsu changed his mind about the necessity of keeping a failsafe? Surely he can’t have done _so_ poorly on his tests to doubt Hanamaki’s ability to fulfill his end of the contract. Had Matskawa simply gotten _tired_ of him? As contractor, he had the power- was he going to send Hanamaki away?

            He lowered himself gingerly onto the edge of the couch opposite Matsu, watching him like a deer watches incoming headlights.

            “Matsu, what happened?”

            Matsukawa clasped his hands as if in prayer on his knee, folding them once, twice. He looked like a man drowning on dry land- Hanamaki found he could relate.

            “Makki—Takahiro.”

            Hanamaki’s heart stuttered in his chest.

            “I—“ Matsukawa choked slightly, closing his eyes and dipping his head. His hands squeezed themselves tighter, showing white at the knuckles, before he lifted his head to try again, meeting Hanamaki’s panicked eyes with a noble attempt at a chagrined smile, naked, vulnerable.

            “I think I’ve fallen for you. _Hard_.”

 

            A beat.

            Hanamaki was still staring. He may have stopped breathing.

            “Please say something,” Issei winced. Any sign of life. He was finding it hard to take in air around his own heart beating a wild tattoo somewhere in the region of his larynx.

            “You _son of a whore!_ ”

            Matsu nearly jumped out of his skin, barely registering the pressure of something soft and sweet on his lips before Hanamaki pulled back into his field of view, beaming and laughing in exasperation: “Do you have _any idea_ how badly you just scared me?”

            And this time Issei _did_ recognize Hanamaki’s kiss, warm and eager and sweetly insistent, the kind you feel all the way to your toes; he recognized Takahiro’s pale lashes pressed against high cheekbones filling his vision before his own eyes drifted closed and his hands unknotted themselves, one drifting up to touch Takahiro’s jawline like he wasn’t sure this was _real_ while the other found the hand on the couch next to their knees and held it tight, as if to promise himself _yes, yes it is, he is right here and he is kissing you back._

            Hanamaki broke away first, still laughing softly, and nestled his forehead against Matsukawa’s shoulder. His hand tightened around Matsu’s as Matsu’s free hand nestled in his hair. “God _damn_ , Matsu, you had me worried for a minute there.”

            “Seriously? I… you..??”

            Makki huffed out a laugh. “Dude, I have been _actively_ trying to seduce you for like, at _least_ a month now.”

            “Oh.” Issei paused as Makki settled himself a little more comfortably in his lap. “Well, that would explain some things.”

            Makki chuckled against Issei’s neck. “You think??”

 

~~

 

           Coffee cups clinked cheerily between the two devils in the cluttered café.

           “Congratulations and all happiness to you and Matsu.”

           “Thanks, man.”

           “Also I am so violently, sickeningly jealous that I could _vomit._ ”

           “I appreciate your honesty.”

           “Mmm.” Oikawa took a refined sip of his coffee. “So what’s the plan now?”

           “I’m staying.” Hanamaki swirled his macchiato around his cup meditavely. “I don’t know what future’s in store for us, but I wanna stay with him ‘till the end.” He lifted his eyes to meet Oikawa’s. “You’ll hand in my resignation to the bigwigs for me, won’t you?”

            Oikawa scoffed, tipping his head into a one-shouldered shrug.

            “And what the hell makes you think _I’m_ going back?”

            “…Fair enough.” Makki broke into a warm grin. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad we’re in this together.”

            Oikawa looked sober. “They’ll probably figure it out eventually. This’ll mean the Furies, Makki. What will you do when they come to collect?”

            “I’m going to fight.”

            The change in the air around Hanamaki made Oikawa shiver, flinching from the flashing of Hanamaki’s eyes like amethysts on fire.

            Hanamaki glanced at Oikawa and dropped his edge, shrugging and turning towards his coffee. “Oh, I’ll probably lose. And die. Horribly. But I’ll be _damned_ if I don’t give them a fight for it. They’ll have to pry Issei’s soul out of my cold, dead hands.”

            Oikawa paused before chuckling mirthlessly. “I think we’re both a bit damned anyway, but your dedication is noted,” he cracked a broad grin. “I had no idea you were so _cool_ , Makki. If I didn’t already have my heart set on Iwa-chan, I might have gotten a bit of a crush.”

            Hanamaki cackled and held his hand up in a sign of peace. “I understand completely, not even the angels could compete with Iwaizumi’s biceps. Absolutely no offense has been taken.”

            And with that, the tension around their table dissipated. There were no longer devils discussing souls and damnation, only two old friends laughing over a coffee, not a care in the world.

 

~~

 

            “So I’ve been thinking…”

            “Did it hurt terribly?”

            Matsukawa grunted at the sharp jab of Hanamaki’s elbow in his ribs.

            “…Our first major _bonding project_ as a couple should be to get Iwaizumi and Oikawa together.” Hanamaki continued placidly as if there had been no interruption and re-settled his back more comfortably against Matsukawa’s chest, their books resting forgotten on the unoccupied arm of the couch where their feet gently tangled with each other.

            “Sounds fun. What brings this on?”

            “Oikawa’s my best friend; I’m contractually obligated to wingman and this is probably the _one time in history_ that he actually _needs_ it.”

            Matsu thought back to how _very_ red Iwaizumi’s ears were the morning when Oikawa was swanning half-naked around their kitchen with Hanamaki. “Mm, I might not be so sure about that.”

            “Hmm?”

            “So Oikawa’s really got it for Iwaizumi, huh?”

“Look, I barely even _like_ the guy but I swear to you, if Oikawa had ever _once_ looked at me the way he looks at Iwaizumi, I’d be on my honeymoon right now.”

            Matsukawa grinned into Hanamaki’s hair. “Guess I’m lucky he didn’t, then.”

            Matsu felt Hanamaki freeze in his arms. Watched his ears match and then surpass his hair in rosiness.

            “Wh— _no._ Oh my _word_ , no. You _sap_ \- get away, you disgust me.”

            Matsu simply laughed, holding the blushing and spitting devil tighter in his arms and pulling them both down into the couch cushions while Makki screamed something incomprehensible about his imminent case of cooties.

            “Hey, Takahiro.”

            Hanamaki quieted his struggling, humming a response.

            “Kiss me?”

            Hanamaki huffed out a breath before twisting in Matsu’s arms, slipping a hand into Matsukawa’s hair to hold himself steady, and mumbling against Matsu’s grin before sealing it with a chaste kiss:

            “You’re completely hopeless.”

 

~~ _fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaand we're done!!
> 
> thank you all so much for your continued interest in this ongoing project; it's by far the longest thing i've ever actually completed.  
> thank you so much MORE for your continued patience; it's hard to believe that it hasn't even been a year since i started, somehow. this project has been a constant through one of the most ridiculous roller-coasters of a year in my life, a few ups but mostly downs, and i can't thank you all enough for your unquestioning support and patience despite my long accidental hiatuses and silence while i waded through all of it.
> 
> if you enjoyed this story, please hit me up on [ my tumbr](https://literal-trashbaby.tumblr.com/) or consider [buying me a coffee](https://ko-fi.com/A1063AS9)!!! 
> 
> seriously, thank you all and i hope to see you again soon!


End file.
